Murder in the Wind

by John D. MacDonald

  And then, like a light being turned on, like a window being opened, it made sense on that first night in Curacao. It made her feel as though she had been particularly obtuse about getting the point of a very obvious joke. It made her feel stupid that it had taken her so very long to learn what this could be. What had been harsh and alien and alarmingly masculine about him became suddenly dear. It all became simplified, like the logic of the dance. Harshness was meant to be enclosed in softness. Giver and receiver. The very physical configurations of them, the differences between them, became as logical to her as night and day. And in the very midst of this new acceptance, in the sudden certainty that what she was doing was inevitable and good, there came upon her wave upon wave of a pleasure so keen that it was beyond anything she had ever imagined. The pleasure stretched beyond the point where she could bear it without crying out, and just as she did so there was a bursting, a fulfillment, a shuddering torrent that left her feeling boneless, spent, heavy and soft as rich whipped cream.

  The next day she went about full of a heavy-lidded wonder, full of a warm sweet stupor. It seemed the most precious and miraculous thing in the world to know that it could happen again and again. She held that knowledge close to her. She could not look at Bunny the same way, ever again. She looked at him with warm, strong, knowing lust, and wanted him when she looked at him.

  She tried to tell him all of it, half laughing as she tried to tell him. He laughed too and held her and said, “It appears, Mrs. Hollis, that the honeymoon has begun.”

  “You have been very patient, Mr. Hollis.”

  “Patience has been richly rewarded, Mrs. Hollis.”

  And in the tropic nights, in the lazy mornings, in the afternoons after swimming, she learned that each time could be better than the last. She learned that she was a lusty woman, and, having always been uncertain, shy, rejected, she felt very proud that here was at last an aspect of life which she could seize cleanly, firmly, strongly.

  And she also learned that this coming alive had strengthened her desire to look well for him. She knew that the better she looked to him the stronger would be his wanting, and the stronger hers would be. She learned to be constantly aware of him, and to so handle her body that she would look her best. She learned little tricks to entice him, amazed and amused at her own ability to devise such tricks. In her flowering she learned to handle herself more gracefully. There was more confidence in her walk, more fun in her talk.

  Little by little, and with the utmost caution, she began to permit herself to believe that she might be loved. She began to believe that if Bunny were acting a part, he was by far the most clever actor in the world. With the new confidence that came from accepting the possibility of being loved, she became Betty Hollis. And the other one, that Betty Oldbern, was long dead, long buried. She could not grieve for Betty Oldbern, not for that fat awkward stupid girl, that wolfer of pastries, that dull talker, that winner of gold medals for excellence in French composition.

  “There isn’t so much rain now,” Bunny said. “But that damn wind is getting a lot stronger.”

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” she said.

  He gave her a quick glance and looked back at the road. “Hmmm. Important?”

  “I think I’m going to have an operation.”

  The car swerved and came back into line. “What the hell kind?” His voice sounded angry, and she was pleased because she knew it was concern and not anger.

  “There was a girl I was in school with in Philadelphia. She had a real grim set of buck teeth and practically no chin at all. Much worse than I. They used to call her the beaver. She had an operation right after school was out and when she came back in the fall she was really lovely. They did something to her jaw. Some sort of bone graft or something. And they fixed her teeth too. The funny thing about it was that her eyes had always looked sort of close together, like mine do. But that was because of her chin going in. I covered up my mouth with a towel this morning and looked and it really does change my eyes. I’m going to find out what she had done and get it done to me.”

  “That’s a lot of nonsense, Betty. You look fine.”

  “You’re a kind man. But I’m going to have it done.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you deserve the best I can provide, mister.”

  “Damn it, I don’t approve of … Hey, what’s all this?”

  She saw the flashing red light too, saw the two cars waiting. The state policeman waved them to a stop behind a loaded station wagon. They found that the bridge was out and that they would have to take a one way detour. Some other cars came along and stopped. Finally they were permitted to go. Bunny complained aloud about the condition of the road and the low clearance of their car. The detour seemed to be a long one. They crossed a narrow wooden bridge and not very far beyond it the two cars ahead of them stopped.

  When Bunny saw the ruined bridge he turned to her and said, “Something tells me, my fat lamb, that we are going to have to sit out a hurricane.” His voice was casual, his smile was easy, but she saw a certain tautness in his face, a tinge of apprehension.

  “We’ll just all have to turn around and go back, darling.”

  “That might be quite a trick.”

  The other men went by toward the rear of the line, but Bunny stayed where he was. Betty felt slightly irritated with him. He ought to at least go and try to help the others. Bunny turned the motor off. The wind made the car tremble.

  “I’ve never liked storms,” he said.

  “What’s holding things up?” she asked.

  He got out, swinging the door up, stepping over the high sill. He looked back and then he got in quickly and he looked pale. “Another tree’s down!” he said nervously. “We’re blocked off here. Damn it, why did they have to send us over this cow path? They should have known it wouldn’t be safe.”

  She turned and saw the others back there. “Well, let’s go back and see what everybody’s going to do about it.”

  When the wind caught her, nearly hurling her from her feet, she felt a wild high surprise. It snapped her hair against the side of her cheek, stinging her. It pressed her skirt tightly against her, and the hem fluttered against her legs, making a rippling fluttering sound. Bunny caught her arm and grinned at her and shouted something over the noise of the wind. They went back to where the others were, and she saw a man sitting on the back bumper of a panel truck, a woman standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder, looking tense and worried.

  An older man with a red face came up to them and told them angrily that the water was rising fast and the other bridge looked dangerous and maybe they’d all better hole up in that empty house back there and wait it out.

  Bunny said, over the wind sound, “These things last a long time. Maybe we ought to walk back to the highway.”

  “It’s better than two miles and there’s low places the water will be over. And the wind’s getting stronger. There’ll be stuff blowing around. Besides we got two little kids in the group, and that fellow there, being helped toward the house, he got hit on the head when the tree came down.”

  “We’re going to walk back to the highway,” Bunny said.

  “Suit yourself,” the man said, and turned away.

  “Mind a little hike?” Bunny said to her. His mouth had a pinched look.

  “We better lock the car first.”

  He looked back uneasily. “You wait right here. I’ll go lock it.”

  “Bring my blue jacket, will you, please? It’s right behind the seat.”

  He hurried off, leaning against the wind, half running. He came back with the jacket. They climbed over the trunk of the fallen tree and walked by the house and onto the other bridge. The floor boards of the bridge were completely under water. Some sort of big log was caught against the bridge and the current was coming up from the Gulf, holding the log against the bridge, spilling water over it. The water was a deep green brown and it made dirty foam where it swirled over and around the
log.

  They both ducked as a palm frond crackled by just over their heads. They saw a big tree fall beyond the bridge. It fell silently, the noise of its falling lost in the roar of wind and water. The water level was rising visibly.

  She looked at Bunny and was shocked at the way he stood, shoulders hunched, under lip sagging, fear visible in the way he stood and the expression on his face. She took his hard arm and shook it angrily. “We better go back to the house.”

  He straightened, looking relieved. “I guess that’s best.”

  “Are you afraid, Bunny?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool. I’m worried. Anybody would be worried. I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s good. I wouldn’t want you to be afraid.”

  They went back the way they had come. They were the last ones into the old house. The six automobiles were empty. It was a relief to be out of the claw and tug and pull of the wind. When her eyes were accustomed to the light, Betty counted noses. Thirteen of them. Five, counting the little girl, were female. One tall very handsome and poised looking woman—a dark-haired woman who had been alone in the convertible. And the nice looking and perhaps slightly pregnant blond woman, the mother of the two children, wife of the man who had been hit on the head. And a young doughy-looking, ripe-bodied girl with a scratch on her cheek. She seemed to be with the two rough-looking boys. She was crying. And Betty was the fifth.

  Eight men. The red-faced one in the cord suit. An old frail looking one who seemed to be with Red-face. The two hard-looking boys. The father who had been hit on the head. And a massive powerful-looking man in a sports shirt. And Bunny. And the little boy.

  Not exactly, she thought, the sort of list I would make up for a party. Would any of them be on such a list? That dark-haired woman. Maybe the big husky man. None of the others, certainly.

  They stood by the fireplace and Red-face came over to them. “Decided not to try it, eh?”

  “It began to look a little too rugged.”

  “I’ve been checking the house. There isn’t any big stuff close enough to fall on it. It looks solid enough, even if some of the floors and the sills are rotted out of it. I’m Johnny Flagan by the way. This here is a business associate of mine. Charlie Himbermark.”

  “Hollis,” Bunny said. “Bunny Hollis. And Betty, my wife.”

  “I guess we might as well make ourselves comfortable, folks. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better. I’ve been through a mess of these things.”

  “Is this really a hurricane?” Betty asked.

  Johnny Flagan laughed. “Lady, this is the front edge of it. It hasn’t got warmed up yet. And my car radio said it’s coming right smack dab at us. It sure fooled those weather boys. It swang around and it’s moving right out of the west. Just like that one a few years back they lost track of in the Gulf and it came right on in and took a sideways smack at Clearwater then moved on up and stomped hell out of Cedar Key. Really mashed that little town up. I’m telling the others and I’m telling you, anything you want to get out of your car, get it now. If you got any food or anything to drink, make sure you get that and bring it in and we’ll put it all in the pot and draw for whoever needs it most.”

  “I guess we haven’t got anything,” Bunny said.

  “But darling,” she said. “How about the coffee in the thermos, and the bag of oranges?”

  “Better get those while we can,” Mr. Flagan said.

  Bunny gave her a quick angry look. He went to the door. He hesitated and seemed to brace himself and then went out. Mr. Flagan touched her shoulder lightly. “Don’t you fret about it, little lady. It’s the low pressure that makes you feel nervous like. We got to all get along here as best we can.”

  Bunny was back in a very short time, bringing the thermos, the oranges, and a woolly car robe. Flagan took the coffee and oranges into the kitchen. Bunny looked around and then said, “Let’s take a look in the other room.”

  The other downstairs room was as barren as the first one. But it was empty of people. He spread the robe down in a corner and they sat on it, their backs against the wall. He lighted cigarettes for them both. His hand shook as he gave her her cigarette.

  He looked beyond her and said, “I guess I was scared, Betty. I guess I still am. I’m sorry.”

  And any last dreg of anger and scorn left her entirely. He had always seemed almost too capable, too ready to meet anything that came up. Now he had showed her weakness, and he had confessed it. It made her feel warm and strong and protective. She wanted to tell him that whatever he was afraid of, she wouldn’t let it come and get him. She cupped her hand against his cheek and said, “I’m just too dumb to be scared, I guess.”

  “Fat lamb,” he said softly.

  He put his arm around her. He held her waist and then she felt his hand slide up to her breast and cup it, and she felt the almost instantaneous swelling and tautening, the almost laughable readiness of her body.

  “Darling, darling,” she whispered, her head sagging against his shoulder.

  “There ought to be a private room in this hotel,” he said. “Shall we ask the desk?”

  “Ask Mr. Flagan. He’s the manager.”

  “And Himbermark is the bell captain,” he said.

  “And that sorry-looking little girl is the dishwasher.”

  “The Windblown Arms,” he said. “With plenty of running water.”

  They laughed together and she turned and kissed the side of his throat.

  12

  When the tree came down and nearly smashed that young fellow flat, Charlie Himbermark shocked himself with the intensity of his wish that the tree had managed to fall on Johnny Flagan. That would have made a nice thing to see. A nice direct hit, driving that ginger skull down between those flabby knees, bursting the self-important belly, turning Flagan into a nuisance on the road, like a tromped frog.

  The image was so vivid that he looked at Johnny Flagan’s neck with a feeling of warm satisfaction. He looked at the back of that thick red neck, at the deep horizontal wrinkles, and he felt warm and glad that the tree had shut Johnny Flagan’s mouth forever.

  But the tree had missed and the satisfaction ran quickly away.

  It certainly was a comedown in life to have to take the punishment that came from Johnny Flagan’s mouth. To have to sit meek as a lamb and say yessir and nosir, and never contradict. Flagan with his stinking little deals. Flagan couldn’t possibly know what the big time was like. He’d never be able to understand a business that was conducted with dignity and purpose and understanding.

  Like handling the Willoughby portfolio for over twelve years. Georgiana had been so proud of him when Charles had been given the Willoughby portfolio. He remembered how, every Tuesday, when he left for the bank she would make certain that he hadn’t put on one of those shirts with the frayed cuffs, or a necktie that was the least bit soiled around the knot. Because every Tuesday afternoon at three-thirty he would leave the bank and go out to the Willoughby place and have tea with old Miss Anna Willoughby and Roger, her brother. They would chat and have tea and then they would go over the summary sheet he had brought along. The sheet would show any changes during the week. Percentage and dollar change in quotations of both the bonds and the stocks. Proxies, stock splits. With old people like that you had to be certain that you were getting the maximum current return from the holdings, rather than playing for a continual increment in the total value. At the time of Anna Willoughby’s unfortunate and unexpected passing away, the value of the portfolio was over nine hundred thousand dollars.

  Flagan had no feeling for dignity. He had no style. It was laughable to think of Flagan ever trying to hold a job at The Bank. Grossinger would have fired him during the first week. The Bank was no place for loud talk, flamboyant clothing and a whisky breath. There was tradition there. Quiet sound tradition.

  Georgiana understood how it was at The Bank, and she was proud of him, proud of the job he was doing. They had both liked the life, liked the p
leasant apartment, enjoyed their friends. Georgiana would never never have approved of Johnny Flagan.

  He wished there was some way he could tell Georgiana about Johnny Flagan. He could imagine how shocked she would have been had he been able to tell her about the other trip he made to Georgia with Flagan, and about the cheap woman Flagan was friendly with up there. A woman just as obvious as Flagan, just as coarse and cheap.

  But Georgiana was dead and now he was, incredibly, married to Agnes, Babe Flagan’s friend. Whenever he thought of Georgiana and Agnes at the same time, he felt guilty and ashamed. He knew that Georgiana could never have conceived of his getting remarried. He did not even quite know how it had happened himself. Agnes wasn’t as coarse as Babe and Johnny. But she was certainly a more … a more robust woman than Georgiana had been.

  Compared to Agnes, Georgiana seemed rather dim. Of course she had never been a very well woman. Those cruel migraines had come upon her so often, and she would have to spend the whole day in a darkened room, suffering the tortures of the damned. She was so brave about it though. Such a small frail brave woman.

  Who could have guessed that she would die when she was only forty-eight? The bitter blow had broken his health. She had been there, and then she had been gone, the apartment empty, the flower smell still lingering, the rooms silent. It was like the days when she had had migraine, and he would tiptoe around to keep from disturbing her.

  His health broke and Mr. Grossinger was very decent about it. As he had only put in twenty-six years in The Bank he could not expect the full pension, of course. But Mr. Grossinger had done the best he could with the Board, and they had put him on a forty per cent pension. It was even fortunate in a way that his health had failed. He would have had to leave in any case. It would have been unbearable to stay there where nearly everything in the city reminded him of Georgiana. But if he had just left, there would have been no pension at all.